


drunk and alone

by seoafin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Protective Steve Rogers, STEVE CAN'T HANDLE FEELINGS, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve rogers is afraid, a lil emotionally constipated, like seriously, natasha and clint are the mean girls, steve rogers can't face his feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 04:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seoafin/pseuds/seoafin
Summary: It’s a pretty well known fact (and an inside joke) that nothing good happens when you’re drunk.aka the three times you get drunk and steve drowns in your smile like a fool.





	drunk and alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you + alcohol = disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do i keep on starting stories when i have like 6 other stories to complete?? idk  
> also this unbeta-d it's late and im tired

It’s a pretty well known fact (and an inside joke) that nothing good happens when you’re drunk.

All it took to reveal the fact was six too many shots of vodka and a blushing Steve Rogers, and you were done for. Blacked out. When you awoke in the morning, you were hungover and genuinely surprised. Somehow, someone had managed to change a drunk, probably difficult, you out of your dress, wipe off your makeup, and change you into one of the large shirts you stole from the various male members of your team.

Oh yeah.

You also had no memory of the last ten hours.

There was nothing except the fact Steve wouldn’t meet your eyes, and one of many™ looks™ were passed from one avenger to another. Especially grating were the occasional snickers that Tony sent your way every time a flush tinted Steve's face at your barrage of questions demanding answers.

Nobody would tell you what happened. Nobody.

The first victim of your interrogation was Tony, but he whistled over your questions and mimed zipping up his lips and throwing away the key, much to your utter dismay (did you even think Tony was going to help you when he could choose to spectate the debacle you had somehow gotten yourself into?). Natasha only sent you the same ever present smirk on her face, and shushed Bruce when he tried to speak. In his defense, he did seem apologetic enough.

Clint threw trail mix into his mouth, wincing, and hit you with a, "do you _really_ wanna know?"

You didn't even bother asking Bucky and Sam-- you didn't feel like getting assaulted with wolfish grins and waggling eyebrows, and that one "is it hot in here or is just me?" line Sam seemed to throw at your clueless ass whenever he saw you slinking around.

Anyway, you hoped that amnesiac chapter of your life was closed and locked shut. And all you wished was for things to go back to normal, as in you could text Steve at some ungodly hour in the night and text him whatever thoughts popped up in your head.

(Okay, the majority of those _thoughts_ were memes. But. _Hey_ , Steve needed help catching up on the times anyway.)

Then he’d respond to your unpunctuated texts with annoyingly perfect grammar chock full of typical Steve Roger snark.

But ever since the fuck up you dubbed the incident™ Steve had been avoiding you. Averting your gaze and ducking out of the room whenever you appeared. Before he fled, you could always see the hint of pink on his cheeks as he turned.

 

\---

 

You eyes flit over the invitation on your desk with narrowed eyes, and you can’t help the sigh that escapes your mouth as you deflate. Eyes following the curve of the gold (probably real, knowing Tony) lettering curled in the shape of your name, you were three seconds from stomping over to the other side of room, ripping the invitation into shreds and watching the pieces fall into your trashcan.

So, yeah. You’re still mad at him.

You briefly linger on the thought of setting the letter on fire and sending Tony a picture, complete with the middle finger and all, but the last time you had tried that Tony had sent you fifty more copies that practically had your mailbox bursting at the seams, with a text that had you rolling your eyes: **You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.**

At least now, a month later, Steve could at least stand being in the same room with you. Maybe not alone, but still. Progress? You didn’t want to do anything to ruin your already tenuous relationship.

Yesterday morning Tony had all but rolled into the kitchen (the man was wearing _heelies_ for fucks sake, what, were you supposed to take him seriously?) while everybody had been eating breakfast, portable speaker in hand, urging the full attendance of the avengers for his latest charity gala, with a specific, pointed stare aimed right at the you who had been in the middle of devouring a granola bar, nursing a bruised ankle, and contemplating all the life choices that had pointed you in the direction of getting your ass beat by Natasha for what seemed to be the twentieth time.

You gulped when all the eyes in room turned to you, except (surprise, surprise) Steve.

Ignoring how your throat had tightened at the fact that Steve suddenly seemed to be way too engrossed in the nutritional value of the cereal box clutched in his hand so tightly that the cardboard was dented in the shape of his fingertips, you made sure the saccharine smile on your lips was dialed at full blast.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” You said through gritted teeth, squeezing the icepack icing your ankle propped up on your thigh and imagining it as Tony’s head.

Tony nodded, a wicked grin on his face. “You do have a pretty great track record--”

“Would you look at the time? Gotta blast.” You were pretty sure your voice cracked on that last note, how _embarrassing_. You staggered off the chair. Out of the corner of your eye, Steve straightened, gaze darting to your now swollen ankle as you emphasized the non existent watch on your wrist.

You turned, ready to awkwardly limp out of the kitchen, and you heard Sam’s genuinely worried (god bless Sam Wilson) voice call out to you, “Uh, you alright kid?”

“ _Peachy_.” You forced out with a grunt when putting too much weight on your ankle almost had your legs buckling.

Face burning, you couldn’t stand the way you could feel _his_ gaze on your back, smoldering and sending every nerve in your body on a high that was better than any alcohol.

You don’t know whether you wanted to cry or laugh.

 

\---

 

“Blue or green?”

Clint, ever the fashionista oh so helpfully pipes up, “The blue matches--”

“How about none?” You interject, shooting both Clint and Natasha a weary look that you hope conveys every conflicting emotion in your body.

They promptly ignore you.

“Come on,” you grouse from your place on your chair, waving the ice pack in the air. When that doesn’t work you point to your obviously swollen, ugly, purplish ankle. “I’m _injured_.”

Okay, so maybe it didn’t hurt _that_ much.

Natasha shrugs, sees through your lie with eyes honed to zero in on and catch even the slightest inconsistencies in body movement. “So wear flats.”

“With a dress?” You gasp, sarcasm leaking through, earning an eye roll from Natasha and a grin from Clint. “Atrocious. _Horrendous_. The fashion gods can just smite me. Right now. This instant.”

“Glad to know that your grievous injury hasn’t sapped all the sarcasm out of you.” Then under her breath, Natasha mutters, “match made in heaven” making Clint erupt into laughter.

“Nothing’s gonna change whether I’m there or not.” Your eyes fall shut with a short sigh. “I’m not even an Avenger. I won’t be missed.”

No super powered abilities, groundbreaking strength, or enhanced intelligence here.

Just a regular, ordinary SHIELD agent with a knack at getting people to spill their secrets. Which is why you were 99.999% pretty sure Fury had a soft spot for you, if it wasn't for your amazing™ personality and wit and--

Okay, you get the idea, but you were sure that somewhere within that icy exterior of his, there was a smile waiting for you in there (hopefully. You couldn’t have been imagining the miniscule quirk of his lips that lasted for precisely 0.02 seconds when he congratulated you on your last mission...right?)

You had befriended the Avengers on a joint mission where you posed as a call girl to infiltrate and take down an international arms dealer.

Steve, you had met later. An accident involving a cup of spilled coffee, copious amounts of blushing, and an awkward introduction.

Hook, line, and sinker.

One look into those baby blues was more than enough, and you were hopelessly done for.

"C'mon kiddo," he ruffles your hair and you try to escape his relentless assault. "There's someone that would miss you, y'know hunky, big, blonde, helps the elderly cross the--"

You shake your head, hands closed over your ears. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

There’s a knowing glint in his eyes when he winks and you feel heat creep up your neck along with a flurry of emotions that have you reeling.

Natasha drops the dress onto your lap.

It's as blue as Steve's eyes and you unconsciously finger the fine fabric, watching it shimmer in the light. It really is a beautiful dress, and as always, Natasha’s taste in dresses are impeccable.

She seems to follow your trail of thinking because she smirks and you maturely roll your eyes and stick out your tongue.

“See you at six.”

Before she can step out the door, Clint in tow, you call out, “you know you _gave_ me this injury!”

Natasha clucks her tongue with her usual air of nonchalance. And although you can’t see her, you can tell she’s smiling. “Tough love.”

The door clicks shut.

 

\---

 

The smell of champagne and pungent perfume washes over you as you sip at the watered down drink in your hand as part of your voluntary isolation.

People laugh and talk and smile as far as the eye can see while you skulk around the bar with a frown that seems to be seared onto your face, throwing off anybody that tries to approach you. Good. You weren’t particularly in the mood to slap on a convincing smile and make idle small talk anyway.

You can hear the journalists and photographers clamoring around Tony and Steve, begging for an interview, pictures, and details about Tony’s newest donation to several renowned charities, etc. You also don’t need to be looking to tell that Steve has on what you call his game face--- a tight-lipped, awkward smile screaming 'i don't want to be here' that the public seems to lap up like honey.

Turning in your seat, you face outwards and survey the room. As per Natasha’s suggestion, you rebandaged up your ankle and forced your foot into simple, black flats that complimented your outfit. And it was only five minutes ago when you had last glanced at your phone, counting down the minutes before it would become socially acceptable to leave.

You feel unsettled, stomach uneasy as people flit around, giving you nothing but a moment’s glance. It’s the nerves, you try to tell yourself. Definitely not because there’s a reporter that’s standing a little too close next to Steve and eyeing him the same way a dog looks like three course brisket meal, or that Steve looks stunning in his suit, with his broad shoulders that could probably take up your doorway, baby blue eyes, and that stupid, _stupid_ smile of his that reveal those annoyingly, perfect teeth--

From far away, you can see Tony laugh heartily and slap Steve on the arm with the word "capsicle" on his lips. Steve opens his mouth to respond, when you catch his eye.

He flounders, grin faltering. Stumbles over his words to the confusion of the reporters around him and you can’t swivel back to the front fast enough.

Shit.

You wave over the bartender, possibly resigning yourself to the fact that this is probably going to be a repeat of the incident™ and your conscience that suspiciously sounds like Steve is telling you that drinking when you’re nervous is really a recipe for disaster but you can’t help yourself.

Five minutes turn into a hour, and a hour turns into three and you’re still at the bar. You can’t dance anyway with your ankle and whatnot, so you sit. And drink. And watch.

Everyone from the woman in the pink dress trailing her hand down the pressed suit of the old gentlemen in front of her and rolling her eyes when he isn’t looking to Sam and Bucky sharing a grin and nodding.

Natasha comes and goes, dress billowing from behind her. She sits. Orders a scotch. Then comments on your aloofness with an amused smile, watching both you and Steve duck around each other, staring when the other isn’t looking.

Steve occasionally glances your way, you can feel his eyes drill holes into your back, roaming the sad little area you preoccupy, lingering on the empty glass that sits by your side as your only partner of the evening and some indecipherable look passes over his face.

It makes your heart hurt.

So you drink. And sure enough, when you close your eyes, it isn't Steve’s face behind your eyelids anymore.

 

\---

 

"Keep your mouth open any longer and you'll be catching flies.”

Sam claps him on the shoulder and Steve is effectively jolted out of his stupfor. Glaring at his smirking friend, he closes his mouth. "Wasn't staring." He mumbles, tearing his eyes off of the bare expanse of your back. He swallows, throat dry.

Bucky comes up from behind him and quirks an eyebrow. "Never said you were Stevie."

He crosses his arms, eyebrow cocked as his two best friends gang up on him, and he can tell Bucky's warmed up to Sam in the best way possible. Even if Sam's teasing can grate on Bucky's nerves at times, it's good to see the two men at ease with each other. "So the two of you are besties now? What else have I missed, a marriage?”

Sam scoffs. "Terminator's lucky if he can get someone like me as his blushing bride." Then he shrugs. “What can I say? Terminator’s grown on me with his broodiness and the hair.” He shakes his head and grins. “God, that hair. Bet it drives the ladies _cra-zy_.”

Bucky frowns, snarky retort on his tongue, but Steve’s drawn back to you, alone at the bar. Just you and a semi empty glass of what he hopes isn’t alcohol. Because if it is, then you’re drunk.

Bucky follows the line of his gaze and nudges him, the sharp jut of his elbow pushing into his abdomen. “Your dame’s looking awfully alone.”

“She’s not my--”

Sam’s arm hooks around Bucky’s neck and the latter’s eyes narrow. “I second that. Poor girl’s been at it since, like, eight.”

Something seizes in his gut, _his girl_.

It was nothing more than a wish he had long repressed, a pipe dream.

Sam’s hearty laugh reaches his ears. “Unless you _want_ a repeat of what happened last time?”

The images are sudden in how they rise to the surface of his brain, pictures flickering to life as they bombard him. The weight of your head against his shoulder. Your eyes peering up at him while you traced shapes into his arm, while everyone watched with a smile on their lips.

You throw your head back, eyes closed with a dopey smile curved on your lips and something in him just--- _warms_ at the sight. He’s missed that smile (inebriated or not) and the only other thing he’s probably missed more is being the one to put it on your face.

You’re also precariously teetering off balance and he tenses, ready to move at the first sight of a possible injury.

That’s when Steve sees him.

 

\---

 

“Not enjoying the party?”

Forcing your eyes open, you’re met with a young man. He’s handsome, you guess, in that sleazy, douchebag-y  way that makes your skin crawl in disgust. He’s wearing a suit, but his shirt’s unbuttoned, and you can see the barest hint of lipstick smeared across his collar.

Your first instinct is to close your eyes, pretend that you haven’t noticed him. Your thoughts are muddled, head buzzing. The chatter around you blends into static, and you think, _think_ that you may have had a little too much to drink.

You don’t think he’s gotten the cue because he scooches even closer, leaning into your personal space with casualness that is _not_ appreciated.

A tight smile. Your head is pounding in your skull. “Mhmm, _loving it_.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, playing along with what he presumes to be you playing coy. He holds out a hand, and you stare at it. “Jamie, you?”

Time to nip this in the bud. You take his hand. “Honored.”

He laughs, adjusting his tie. “Not right away, eh?” The wink he sends you makes you want to gag. “I get it.”

“You know what else I think you’d love?”

_Please don’t say your dick._

You laugh, the woozy, high pitched one that suggests you to be too drunk to hold a coherent conversation, and it gratefully interrupts whatever innuendo was about to grace your ears. “You know,” you throw your head in the direction of the door, “I should really--”

“Come on,” he murmurs, giving you a once over, and you groan. “Let’s get out of here. Have some fun?”

With a sharp exhale, you shift away, relishing the way the smile melts off his face. “ _Look_ , thanks but no _thanks--”_

You trip over your words when a cold hand slides up your thigh.

Fuck.

You immediately draw back, somewhere within the murky confines of your head is ready to give this asshole a verbal lashing, but a third voice cuts into the air, seething.

“I believe the lady said no.”

Your relief is palpable as you slouch in your seat. Steve towers over you both, and his presence is comforting to say in the least. But still, you can’t completely relax with your relationship still hanging in the balance.

Jamie shoots up, eyes so wide it’s almost comical. “Holy shit, you’re Captain America.”

You’re pretty sure at this point you can’t even walk straight, so maybe, just maybe you’ll let Steve take the reins on this one. Besides this is the closest you’ve been to Steve in like, a month. It’s pathetic.

Jaw set, eyes cold, Steve strikes you as an imposing figure. “You should leave.” He says glaring at the now cowering Jamie. “And learn how to respect women while you’re at it.”

Steve radiates  some kind of righteous fury, and a part of you wishes it was all because of you, but no, that’s just wishful thinking. This is just Steve being Steve, protector of the defenseless (and women) with a moral compass that would make Aristotle weep.

You stifle laughter, more so at the fact that you are pathetically and impossibly in love with one Steve Grant Rogers, but the sound makes Jamie flash you a panicked look and you immediately sober, shrugging, eyes innocently wide as you play the clueless bystander.

Jamie scrambles backwards, stuttering out a quick ‘i’m sorry’, eyeing Steve like one would a dangerous tiger. He disappears within the crowd in seconds, nothing more than a bad taste your in your mouth.

You stare at the space Jamie had occupied, expecting Steve to bow out, but he stays, to your pleasant surprise. You plan to stay in your seat, at least until you can feel your feet again and your legs don’t feel like jello, ready to crumble at the smallest push.

Walking home semi-drunk with a swollen, possibly sprained ankle? Even in impaired state, where you usually make even worse life choices than usual (really, it’s a talent) you can tell that that’s not really the best idea.

But Steve’s shoulders are still pulled taut, fists clenched, eyes trained on your thigh and you frown. Normally you’d stay silent, but you’re kinda drunk. And more talkative. You figure you can still play that card, right?

You nudge him with your foot (the one that still works normally) and his gaze snaps to you. You pat the seat next to you, inviting him to sit.

He accepts.

“Does it hurt?”

His concerned look is leveled against your ankle, and you look at it, still as purple as it had been this morning. “Nah,” you reach for your cup, then stop. “Just can’t put too much weight on it.”

He frowns. “Why’d you come? You should be at home resting.”

“And miss this amazing party?” You gesture to the throng of people with a lopsided grin. “I’m having a _blast_.”

He chuckles, but it’s strained.

Silence falls over the two of you.

“Whuz wrong?”

Now you’re slurring. Great.

You don’t like it when Steve doesn’t smile. He’s too pretty to be frowning all the time, after all, he’s not the broody-pretty, he’s the smiley-pretty. Like a golden retriever. You laugh at the thought and Steve’s eyebrows furrow.

He exhales, the fight leaving his body. He looks at you and his face softens and something in you lights up giddily, even more so when the corners of his lips twitch.

“Nothing,” he finally says, fixed on the way you’re smiling at him like that again. Like he’s everything good in the world and--

“Liar.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“Tony wuz right,” you yawn and he tamps down the urge pull you into his arms, so you can lean against the crook of his neck in the same fashion that makes his heart beat like a hummingbird. “You’re a shit liar, Steve Grant Rogers and I,” you struggle to force the words out, feeling nothing but urgency at the fact that yes, you _need_ to tell him this, but your body betrays you. “I…” you trail off, eyelids getting heavier. You vaguely wonder how you’re going to get home if you fall asleep here but the thought is lost with the others.

You’ve always been a sleepy drunk.

Your eyes fall closed, and you can faintly register a whiff of cologne mixed with a pleasant scent that reminds you of _home_ , and someone gathering you into their arms.

 

\---

 

“Steveeee.”

“Yeah, doll?”

“Can put me down now y’know.”

You have absolutely no idea how you ended up in this position: arms wrapped around Steve’s neck, his hands secured underneath your thighs as he carries you up six flight of steps. You’re not drunk, but not exactly sober either.

He’s warm.

“I don’t know,” there’s a smile in his tone. “Can I risk you tripping over your own feet?”

You frown. Probably not.

He hears you sigh dreamily, shifting in his grip. The warmth of your body pressed against his back. He can feel your breath on his neck and his heart stutters his chest.

“Am I heavy?”

He laughs, and the tremor goes straight to your body. “I think your priorities are in the wrong place doll.”

“Never answered.”

“You aren’t. Trust me.”

A heartbeat passes in silence. Then two. Then Three.

“Hey Steve,”  You sound startlingly lucid, but the way you’re patting his shoulder and playing with his hair suggests otherwise. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

His foot misses his mark and he staggers forward. “I, uh…”

Apparently you’re a lot more candid when drunk, and he files that information away.

He swallows. Thinks back to the last time he had taken you home while you had been drunk: hair mussed, makeup smudged, and walking with unsteadily. Yet you had been the most beautiful girl in the world in his eyes. You had smiled at him, like he had hung the moon and the stars and was responsible for all of the things right in the world.

He wished right there and then, that he had the right to tuck the small strand of hair that had fallen in front of your face behind your hair. He wished that instead of being frozen straight to the spot, he could’ve _done_ something, anything but be enamored by the sight of your smile.

Then you had thrown your arms around him and kissed him. Short, sweet, and in a way that had his legs buckling. In a way that brought him down to his knees. He had kissed you back, delighted by the way you had leaned into him. The breathy moan that escaped your lips echoing in his ears. When the two of you had pulled apart, your eyes had been closed, and the smile on your lips made flutters erupt, low in his stomach.

He had tucked you in that night.

The next morning you had been none the wiser. Strolling into the compound complaining of a headache splitting your skull while everybody around him had been grinning, shooting him sly glances and winks.

The realization was a cold bucket of water.

You scared him.

You seem more alert, cognizant. “...Steve?”

Steve clears his throat, “Sorry, sorry. I just…”

He stops, in front of your door in your shitty apartment that apparently can’t afford an elevator. “I’ve been busy lately.”

An obvious cut out excuse, and once again, you’re shut out.

You don’t push it.

Face falling, you were expecting a much different answer and he kneels down so you can clamber off of him. This was your fault. Something had happened, something that had made Steve feel uncomfortable around you.

You can’t meet his eyes. There’s an air of resignation that surrounds him as he runs a hand through his hair with a heavy inhale.

There’s silence as you stare at your feet.

“Thanks.”’

His mouth opens, watching your downcast expression. Then closes.

“I…”

You shake your head with a small smile, eyes burning. “Night Steve.” You mumble, trying to imbue your voice with a cheerfulness you don’t feel. Your heart clenches and your throat closes up.

His eyes cut into your back as you open the door and shut it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on tumblr @ seoafin


End file.
